where do you think you're going (dean winchester)

1993

The kitchen was empty, but John and Bobby's voices could be heard from the next room as the boys shuffled inside.

"John, you know the boys can always stay," Bobby was saying now, "but you've gotta quit bein so hard on Dean. He's fourteen and a better hunter than most I know. Better than I'd like him to be. Mistakes happen to the best of us, you and me included. And Dean is a kid."

Dean would never understand what compelled the man to be so soft on him. Didn't he understand Dean couldn't afford mistakes? Especially when Sammy was there. He just wished he remembered what, exactly, he'd done, so he could properly hate himself for it.

"He's not a kid, he's a hunter!" John snapped. "And you're not their father!"

Before Bobby could respond, the man was storming back into the kitchen and towards the door.

"Not sure when I'll be back, Sammy," he said, making a point of directing the words at the younger son. "Be good."

Sam barely glanced up, the quiet anger that was becoming more and more common when he was with his father clearly simmering. "Uh-huh."

The glare returned to his face as he looked at Dean.

"Look out for him, you hear?"

"Yes, Sir."

The door slammed behind him.

A sigh from the other side of the room, followed by a tired but fond, "Hey, Boys."

Sam did look up now. "Hi, Uncle Bobby."

"Hey, uh... hey, Uncle Bobby." Dean's gaze remained fixed on the floor, his voice came out barely audible.

Why was talking so hard?

"Sounds like it was a rough hunt," Bobby said, crossing the room to look them up and down. "You boys alright?"

Both heads bobbed quickly, two kids trained to always tell adults that weren't John (John would tell them for them) that they were fine... they were always fine.

"Did Dad tell you what happened?" Dean asked quietly.

Maybe Bobby would repeat it, fill in his spotty memory. He just needed to know.

"Briefly." He opened his mouth to go on, but Sam cut him off.

"It wasn't Dean's fault!" he blurted frantically, clearly anticipating another scolding or lecture for his older brother. "Dad spilled beer on the duffle. The matches were wet. Dean got the fire started eventually, I just had to throw some salt on it! He... he didn't..."

"Slow down there, Sam," Bobby cut him off. "I know it wasn't Dean's fault. I ain't angry with him."

"Oh." The boy breathed a visible sigh of relief. "Okay. Good."

There was a moment of silence before Sam looked down at his book again. "Can I... is it okay if I keep..."

Bobby didn't have to be told to know that asking for permission to read was a very valid thing to do in the Winchester house. He nodded quickly, waving the boy towards the next room.

"Course, Sam. Pick a couch. Or your bedroom upstairs. Changed the sheets last week."

"Thanks, Uncle Bobby."

And he hurried to the living room to curl up on one of the worn out couches and lose himself in the story.

In his absence, Bobby bent a little to look at Dean.

"What happened to your head there?" he asked gently, indicating the bloody, bruised area of his forehead that continued under his hair.

Dean still didn't meet his gaze. "Ghost," he murmured. "Ceiling beam." A vague gesture of his hands.